Lit Up by My Brother’s Best Friend (Lit Creek #1)

Chapter 4

HUNTER

“Let me get this straight. You were sneaking into a concert?” I ask this as nonjudgmentally as I can while we sit on her couch picking a movie to watch.

“Yes. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

“But you had a ticket. Why the hell were you climbing the fence?

“I was sneaking in.”

“With a ticket?” I ask again, this time more incredulously.

“In case I got caught,” she mumbles.

And then I buckle. I can’t stop laughing. I’m folded over with my arms on my knees.

“Hunter, you said you wouldn’t laugh at me.” She shoves me lightly.

“I’m not laughing at you.” I say between gulps of air. Man, I haven’t laughed like this in a while, and it feels so damn good.

“Yes, you are.” I can hear the pout in her voice.

Once I get my chuckles under control, I look up at her and, sure enough, she’s giving me duck lips. “I’m laughing with you.”

“But I’m not laughing.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” I grin at her. When she tries to shove me again, I pull her into a hug. She smells so damn good, and—jolt to my dick—I don’t think she’s wearing a bra. I can feel the softness of her tits against my chest, and it feels way too good. Dangerzone.

I’ve always been able to resist her because she’s always had a boyfriend. So whatever feelings have crept up from time to time (okay—every time I see her), I just shove them deep down into a dark cave. No one wants to venture in there to see the mess that lies within.

But her softness, her vulnerability, I can feel it like osmosis, seeping out of her and into me. I can’t help myself, I kiss her hair. Uh. Okay. I didn’t mean to kiss her. She has a boyfriend. Backpedal in my mind. It wasn’t a sexual kiss. I’m sure even her brother, Wyatt, has kissed her there before. That’s a weird thought. Okay. Hug her and move on. Don’t make this awkward.

“It’s all good, Sierra. See? This is just another example of how sweet you are.”

“You think I’m sweet?”

“The sweetest.” Uh. I shouldn’t have said that either. But really, it just seems like one of those nights where she might need some reassurance. I did just rescue her hanging from a fence. If there was ever going to be a night of consoling, this would be it.

“I thought you called me Sweets because I’m a baker?”

“That too.” And other reasons I’ll never tell her.

“Oh,” she mumbles to herself as she makes a concerted effort to find the remote. She clicks on the first movie highlighted in the box, and it starts to play. Probably for the best.

We’ve each got a bottle of soda and then we’re sharing a big bowl of popcorn with M&Ms sprinkled throughout. Everything is going well. Very platonic.

Except every time our fingers graze along each other’s when we reach for popcorn at the same time. I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. I’m just really feeling the popcorn tonight. It’s like I can’t get enough of it.

“Ugh,” Sierra groans loudly as my fingers brush hers again. It’s only been like thirty-two times, nothing to get upset about. And I’m just about to tell her that she can get her own bowl when she grumbles, “Spin the bottle.”

“What?”

On the edge of the couch, she points to the screen. Oh, in the movie a group of college kids are playing spin the bottle. I remember those days and grin.

“Good times, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she mumbles.

“Wait. What?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Sitting upright, I hold my hands in a T. “Pause the movie. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Hunter, don’t make a big deal out of this.” When she turns to me, her normally bright and cheerful eyes are dispirited.

I grab her hand. As I said, tonight is the night for consolation. “I won’t make a big deal out of this if you don’t want me to.” My thumb—swear to God, with a mind of its own—brushes the top of her hand. “It seems like maybe there’s something going on tonight.”

“Fine,” she exhales roughly and sags against the back of the couch, pulling her hand out of mine. I lean on the back of the couch with her. “Since you’re dragging it out of me, I’ll tell you. It’s quite simple. Never. Have. I Ever.”

Clearly the words have meaning to her, so I encourage her with my go-to prompt. “Okay…”

“Well, Hunter, I have never ever.”

“I see.” I don’t .

“Ugh. You don’t get it.”

She’s right, but I’m not about to admit that. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“I’m just the good girl.”

“What’s wrong with being the good girl?” Her growl in response would indicate to me that there’s a helluva lot wrong with being the good girl.

“I’ve never done anything bad. No, it’s not that I need to do something bad, I just don’t even take any risks.”

Okay. The pieces are starting to click. “Hence the concert?”

“Yup,” she nods.

“I see.” And now I do. “And spin the bottle?”

“Yup.” She sits up. “Just ignore me. This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven and I’m whining about never having played spin the bottle. I’m just being a dingus.”

“A dingus?” I splutter.

She swats me. “Yes.” But then she smiles, and her whole face lights up, and I love it. Her smile is the best thing in the world. It might (and I say this with caution) even be better than her snickerdoodles. Not sure I should ever tell her that though.

“It’s okay to have regrets.”

“This is such a dumb one though.” She’s fidgeting with her fingers. “Do you have any regrets?”

An elephant sits on my chest at the question. She can’t possibly know the regrets I have accumulating on my shoulders. “Far too many.”

“Really? You? But you’re so…perfect.”

“Right.” And since I can’t share any of the regrets I have that involve her, and since I know she’s opened up to me, I’m more than willing to do the same. May as well lay it on her. “I regret letting my mom die in my arms.”

Silence. Ya. I knew that was coming. Why did I unload on her?

She’s silent for so long that I know I’ve damaged whatever bond we were forming. What kind of son would let his own mother die in his arms? There’s no redemption from that. I know that. I’ve accepted that, and I’m fine being on my own.

But then I hear her sniffle. When I look up, tears are streaming down her face, and even though she’s swiping at them, they’re pouring down too fast.

“It wasn’t your fault, Hunter.”

“I know—”

Her hands are cupped around my jaw and she’s staring into my eyes like there’s a message she needs to impart from the universe.

“It wasn’t your fault, Hunter.”

“I know.”

“Look at me. There was nothing you could have done. The fire was too big—” she chokes up “—and she breathed in too much smoke.”

I’m pretty sure I mumbled I know again, but now her hands are in my hair and she’s pulling my head to her chest. And somehow I felt wetness against her shirt. I wonder how her shirt got wet from her tears before I realize it’s wet from my tears. But I don’t think about the tears right now. I just hold her and she holds me. She holds me like she wants to. Like there’s something worth holding onto.

I haven’t cried over my guilt in a long time. I’ve just accepted it. But maybe I don’t have to.